Queens, Pawns, and the Bold Deceiver
by Paisley the Flowergirl
Summary: The somewhat dubious story of how Specs, Bumlets, and Skittery "took Queens," despite a newsie king called Battleaxe, brute squads, gentrification, miracles, mad dogs, one angry bookie, and a few flaming pianos. Rated T for swears n fisticuffs.
1. The Most muddled of Introductions

Dear friends ! Hello ! I have at last put my fingers to the keys to write out the fruits of my labors concerning the borough of Queens and our pals Skittery, Specs, and Bumlets. Haven't you ever wondered how these three brave souls got the largest borough in New York to join the strike of 1899? This is my answer to that question. Expect changes in voice, a whole bunch of Queens newsies, in-jokes, a bit of swearing, some rough 'n' tumble violence, and deconstruction of a few tropes as we go. Maybe also some in-story shout-outs.

You ready? I'm ready! Let's crack on, then!

**Disclaimer:**

**Race: That's my cigar-**

**Snipeshooter: You'll steal anudder-**

**Paisley: *Takes cigar* Hey fellas, we'se got work ta do!**

**Race: *snatches cigar, cradles it protectively* This ain't your cigar, and we ain't your characters.**

**Paisley: Oh. Right. Crack on, then.**

_What d'ya thing you're doing ? _

_Runnin'._

_I'd heard Jack Kelly use that selfsame phrase just last week. I had a bone to pick with Jacky boy, as it was he, our great and fearless leader, that had directly sent me on a fool's errand to the strangest borough in New York City, an errand that could only end in- you guessed it- running._

I banked around a sharp corner onto Flushing Avenue, not daring to hazard a glance behind me. I mentally counted blocks until the Brookyn border; I came up with just under infintiy.

_Damn._

I never thought that I, Manhattan's fondest of sons, would equate the Brooklyn border of all things with safety, but here I was, searching for the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge in the early morning haze as if they were the pearly gates. I allowed myself a sharp bark of laughter and leapt over the front part of someone's cart. To my surprise and alarm, the three thuds of my pursuers hitting the cobblestones in kind came quicker than I though they would.

_Double damn._

I didn't know how much longer my body could take this constant running. It had become a ritual of sorts, a daily dance with danger as regular as the carillon at Our Lady Of Sorrows. Still, I had been escaping for the past week without much more than a glancing cuff to the ears.

But I had never been this deep into Queens before, and I was already questioning my ability to make it out with both my legs still in working order. Whether it was exertion or billyclubs that caused their imminent demise was up to chance.

I took that chance. I dodged back down an alley, knowing (or at least guessing) that it opened up onto Grand Street. I could still get to Brooklyn from Grand, right?

The footfalls behind me were alarmingly close. I could hear the ragged breath of who I correctly guessed to be Messers Barrister, Roesoje, and LaPaglia, affectionately known as Lefty, Gum, and Gabby. A soaking from any one of them, let alone the three combined, was enough to make a fellow quake in his half-boots. It was not in my best interest, then, when a door along the alley burst open, flooding me with a chorus of factory girls. In fact, as cotton skirts and surly feminine faces hampered my progress towards the light at the end of the alley, one thought crossed my mind:

_What d'ya think you're doing?_

_I'm not running. I'm a goner. _

Hold it, hold it right there.

My dear friend Skittery is getting ahead of 'imself. In fact, he's getting ahead of all three of us. I know the whole _in medial rez_ thing is popular and all; I don't just sell papes, I'm one of those rare Newsies that reads every last word. All the better to- well, I can extract "Canada Hostile; Looming Declaration of War" from "Harriman Expedition Makes Little Progress," if you catch my drift. A Baby Born With Two Heads get three when it's me improvin' the truth. But I'm digressin'.

See, it all started on a day that you probably know well: Tuesday, July seventeenth, 1899. It was a hot day, sticky, and the old adage _summer stinks_ had been hanging around like a rank Delancey since sunup; I had to squint through the glare in my glasses to see. The Manhattan newsies had just done a little something called _strike_. And Jack Kelly- good ol' Cowboy Kelly, Manhattan's king, was sending what he called ambastards out into the streets of New York City to drum up support.

Now I'm known among the Manhattan newsies as the one with the big mouth. Literally; I can put an apple in whole. I'm not even kidding. I'll show you sometime, if you'd like. But the hole in the middle of my face is big in the figurative sense, too. I tend to speak often and loudly, which ain't a bad thing for a fellow that makes his sheckles hawking headlines to the hoi-paloi. But it also gets me into some pretty tight scrapes- you'll see in a while, when we get to that part of the story- but I'm getting off topic again.

Anyway, me and my big mouth. Cowboy was telling us where to go, to drum up support as it were. Well, I was pretty confident in my ability to convert whatever section of New York's downtrodden newsboys I got assigned to the noble and glorious cause of striking against our favorite tycoon, the creator of the World Joseph Pulitzer himself. But when Jack said:

"Bumlets, Specs, an' Skittery, you take Queens,"

I felt just a little bit of apprehension, poking at the back of my brain. But just a little. I've been told that I have the gift of the gab, and that, friends, is the gift that keeps on giving.

So you've hoid what my fellow am_bassadors_ (I'm not gonna use whatever pidgin literate term Cowboy insists on) to Queens had to tell you, by way of introduction. Well, let me be the first to say that they did a terrible job.

I'm here to tell you the real deal- about how we, Specs, Skittery, and yours truly, Bumlets, took Queens and brought it to join the ranks of the Newsboys Strike of 1899. It sure wasn't easy. Queens is big, the biggest borough in all New York. You'll hear every language anyone's ever spoken in the space of one block. There're rich and poor, robber barons in turretted mansions and orphans and runaways starving on the streets- and _iscapita_! Politics run the joint. If you've ever heard of Manhattan's brand of crooked politican, Queens has them in spades and ready to jump you by night. There are gangs camped out in every living acre of Queens, and how they ever do fight. But I'm getting ahead of myself: all you need to know about our foray into Queens are these things.

This is a story about how we met a newsie king by the name of Battle Axe, and lived to tell the tale.

It's a story about running (like Skittery said), but it's also about turning around and fighting for once.

It's about making a gamble and making a fortune- literally. And a first kiss.

In this story, we travel the world in the course of a week, and Skittery discovers how to walk across the East River.

Specs becomes a gentleman, and people inexplicably begin to refer to him as Lawrence. His name's not Lawrence.

And me- well, I talk. Quite a bit, in fact. It's a new development.

It's also about trusting all the wrong kinds of roughnecks and sharps, and putting our lives in the hands of someone named Crazy Arborn.

It's about the Great Dance on Steinway Street, stolen flaming pianos, and everything that happened there.

And, of course, you know how it ends. It's about taming the brute squad and shutting down at least thirty blocks of factories, if only for a day.

Now I'm going to give the spotlight back to Skittsy. Sit tight.

Opinions? Thoughts? What do you want to see out of this? I'm not writing too far ahead, so any feedback will be taken into account! Reviews will be greeted with confetti, streamers, and chocolate-dipped newsies.

-Pais


	2. Gambles Twain, and an Underestimation

_Thanks for the lovely reviews, dears! I hope you're enjoying your chocolate-covered newsies, and promise a pair of new shoes with matchin' laces to all who review this chapter! Anything's appreciated._

_To Mayarin: Aww schucks! *blushes* I hope that the plot meets your expectations, and Bumlets shall continue to be wittiness incarnate. Gosh I love that kid._

_To Potato: Thank you! I will try to keep my updates regular!_

_To Rose: You flatter me! And, yes, there will be some original characters with double x chromosomes popping up… first kisses, riiight? ;) _

**Disclaimer:**

**Newsies: Ev'ry morrrrrr-nin,' we goes where we wishes, we'se as free as fishes-**

**Jack: And that means we DON'T belong to Paisley!**

**Paisley: Sure beats washin' dishes.**

_Chronologically speaking, we've got days until me and the factory girls come back into the story, so you'll just have to hold onto your hats and listen. Nothin' _I_ can do._

_Now I'm going to tell you about a few things that happened before we even set foot in Queens. First of all, we unknowingly got ourselves roped into what would eventually turn into a pickle, and an expensive pickle at that. Secondly, we underestimated our job. That's never a good idea, but thanks to Bumlets, we were at least a little bit prepared for the task at hand. Still, had we known just how much trouble this endeavor was going to get us into, I, for one, would never have willingly set foot on the Brooklyn Bridge, conduit to Queens. As it was, we thought it would be a piece of Mayer Jacobs' birthday cake. _

_Where were we? Oh yes;_ "Bumlets, Specs, an' Skittery, you take Queens."

I wasn't about to complain or anything. Surprise, surprise. Sure, it wasn't what I'd call a plum job- I mean, Mush was off to chase girls in the Bowery, Race to the bright lights of Midtown, and Snipeshooter, Snoddy, and Pie were all on their way to the East Side to brush shoulders with (and maybe get a few spare nickels from) New York's upper crust. But hell, Queens was a far sight better than, say, Brooklyn. Now I'm not scared of Brooklyn, or much else, but, like Boots once said, Spot Conlon and his lot were cause for worry. I didn't know the boss of Queens from Adam, and that was a good thing- said lack of notoriety meant that he didn't have a big enough ego (or a violent enough reputation) to be well-known in the other boroughs. And as for my partners in crime, Specs and Bumlets were good guys to have at your back. Sure, they represented the extremes on the scale of verbal expression, but maybe that'd just bring, y'know, _balance_ to this thing.

There were worse places in this city I could be sent off to. So I was neither glum nor dumb. For the record.

I was shuffling through the crowd, Queens-bound, and coming up a few facts short of a coherent plan when a bolt of lightning clad in houndstooth barged into me.

It was a Racetrack. An excited Racetrack. Funny, there weren't any tracks in Midtown-

"So you'se off ta Queens, eh?" The kid was _insensibly_ ebullient, even jumpier than usual with a light in his eyes just this side of maniacal.

Specs and Bumlets turned round, eyebrows raised. They knew as well as I that what came next had a fair to middling chance of being… interesting. Gambling would be involved, I'd wager.

Ha.

"So what?" I drawled.

"Queens, Queens-" he took out a cigar, and lit it, hands atremble with some high form of anticipation. "Home of the Big A, the great racin-o, the jewel of Ozone Park-"

"What in hell're you talkin' about?" Specs interjected, clearly hooked.

Race turned his face skyward, a reverent, almost tender expression crossing his mug. "Aqueduct. Racetrack," he breathed. "One and an eighth miles of smooth turf, no more than five years old. Seats seventeen thousand, and I, good sirs, have yet to place a bet inside those those hallowed walls." He gave his cigar a few contemplative puffs. "Could I beg ya to- I mean, wouldja-"

I narrowed my eyes. It was just like the incomparable Mr. Higgins to squeeze time for a race or two in the middle of what could turn out to be the riskiest event of our young lives. "If you think we'll place a wager for you, Race, you've bet wrong. This jaunt to Queens is strictly business. We don't have time for a day at the races-"

"Glum an' dumb!" Race made a lunge for my ears. I ducked, accustomed to his usual assaults on my character. "Can I sweeten the deal with a percentage?"

I was still hesitant. "For a buck, I might…"

"Seventy-thirty, what say ya?"

"Deal!" Specs leapt forward, spitting into his palm and proffering a handshake. Apparently, he was willing to disregard Racetrack's notorious lousy luck in favor of a gamble. I shot Bumlets a glance; he looked equinanimous, as usual.

"Guard this with your very lives, me chums," Race ordered, rattling a handful of assorted coinage into Specs' waistcoat pocket. "Now beat over ta Queens 'fore the strike's over!" Race scampered away in the direction of Lafayette Avenue, headed for the glories of Midtown.

I exchanged looks with Specs and Bumlets- I hadn't the foggiest where to start our conquest of Queens, and now we had an extra liability on our hands in the form of a pile of rattling change and a solemn oath to bet at Aqueduct.

By silent agreement, we all turned on our heels and began our journey down Centre street, in the general direction of our assigned borough.

"So what do we know about Queens?" I asked, shoving my hands in my pockets.

Specs followed suit. "It's big."

"That's all _anyone_ knows about Queens."

"What can I say? It's not like we ever see 'em over here in Man'attan," Specs countered with a shrug. "Why _is_ that?"

Silence.

Bumlets cleared his throat.

"How we crossin' that?" Specs muttered, jerking his chin in the direction of the East River.

"Only way we can. The bridge. Then through Brooklyn."

Silence.

"We could always take a ferry," Bumlets piped up hopefully.

"Us an' what money?" Specs said bitterly. "We're on strike now. That means no income until Joe gives us our prices back, if 'e ever does."

Of course, none of us even considered dipping into Race's Aqueduct fund, ferry trip or no. We may have been no better than common urchins, but at least we had honor.

Grim silence.

All of a sudden, Bumlets piped up.

"Won't be so bad, cutting through Brooklyn."

"Huh?"

He spoke up a bit. "As long as we keep to the wharves, we'll be right along Officer's Row. Right near Conlon's headquarters, but close enough to the Navy yards to avoid a confrontation. From there, it's a hop, skip and a jump to Flushing Avenue, and from there, a straight shot to Gleason's Gulch."

"Gleason's Gulch?"

"You know, Queens' headquarters. Home of Battleaxe McCarty and his thugs. Middle of Astoria's warehouse district? No?"

Specs and I stared at the kid in disbelief. Not only was this the most we had ever heard him say at once, but what he was saying was _helpful._

"Tell us everything you know!" crowed Specs, throwing an arm around his shoulder and leading the march towards the bridge.

Bumlets looked pleased. "The newsie king of Queens is Battleaxe McCarty; though he and his gang never cross the East River, they're known on the far side as a regular collection of political sharps. They're close with Spot Conlon's newsies, and have been known to side together during gang wars."

"So you got a plan, then?" Specs asked.

Bumlets shrugged modestly. "The best way to approach Battleaxe will be to head straight to Astoria, find 'is warehouse- it'll be an abandoned one- and tell 'im the news about the strike. Since we aren't selling on their turf, the Queens boys should leave us well enough alone."

"Simple enough," I mused. Too simple.

I was right, but kept my trap shut. Now was not the time for pessimism; we had a strike to sell, and failure on our part would surely mean nothing good for Manhattan.

Specs rubbed his hands together. "Time to put Operation Queens into full effect!"

We rounded the curve of Centre street and trotted onto the great expanse of the Brooklyn bridge. Eventually, Jack, David, and Boots would be walking the same path; like any proper newsies, they would do the sensible thing and lean perilously off the railing, yelling into the great void below. We did just that, emptying our lungs to the tugboats in the river.

Then, we set off again, each of us maybe a bit nervous to breach the new world of Flushing Avenue.

_Look forward to our verbose Mr. Specs narrating next as we enter Queens and meet some new friends, some of whom want our blood! Reviews Welcome!_


End file.
